


Penitent

by allyoops



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse of Authority, F/F, Fictional Religion & Theology, Innocence, Medieval-esque setting, Object Insertion, Rapist praising victim, Spanking, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 22:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/pseuds/allyoops
Summary: The Reverend Mother is guided by her Maker in all things, including the care and chastisement of her novitiates. And Beatris just wants to be good . . .





	Penitent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> This work may contain underage characters depending on the law where you live. The youngest participant is sixteen.

Sister Agnes cleared her throat apologetically. It was particular trick of Sister Agnes, that she could do this; her ability was born of having so often been appointed by the other sisters to deliver disappointing news to the Reverend Mother. Consequently, the Abbess was accustomed to the sound, and looked up from her modest table of business in expectation of news worth apologizing for.

“Yes, Sister Agnes? What now?”

Sister Agnes shook her head.

“Beatris has been fidgeting in chapel again.”

“Oh?” the Abbess de-inked her stylus and set it aside. Household accounts could wait. “This makes the second time this week, does it not?”

“The third, in fact. And the week is barely half done.”

“Indeed.” The Abbess considered the problem. “It does not seem a problem I would expect of her. Beatris always seems such a pious, good girl.”

“Oh, she is!” cried Sister Agnes. “That’s why we’ve hesitated to bring it to your attention. I think it is not a problem of impiety; she is ever so sincere in her devotions, and perfectly chaste. You know we had that trouble with the girls sneaking out of the schoolroom last year to meet boys from the manor?”

“A common problem, when they reach that age. Fifteen is a difficult year. I know some of them get into trouble earlier than that, but I find no year so bad as fifteen for ruining otherwise excellent prospects.”

“Indeed, and a great shame to their Maker I am sure,” Sister Agnes said absently, “but though that was her year, and they her friends, such wantonness was never a vice of Beatris. She was always abed most promptly and not once did we find her abroad at that hour. Indeed she is one of only three girls from that year who achieved her novitiate this spring; the others,” Sister Agnes blushed delicately, “were obliged to find respectable employment.”

The Abbess smiled at this exquisite delicacy.

“So she is a very good girl.”

“Oh yes.”

“It is not wilfulness, then, that drives her to fidget.”

“Not at all, Mother, I am sure of it. She is greatly shamed when scolded, and already is deeply penitent. It is only the frequency that is a concern.”

“This is not a cause for great alarm then, Sister Agnes. I am sure she only requires a firm hand to guide her, and all will be well.”

“Yes, just so,” Sister Agnes heaved a sigh of relief. “Very well then, shall I send her to you?”

“Yes, all things considered, I am greatly at my leisure.”

So Sister Agnes vanished from the Reverend Mother’s private room to fetch the penitent. The Abbess, in her absence, considered the case.

Beatris she knew vaguely by name, and even more vaguely by sight. The Abbess had little to do with the daily affairs of their convent students, and it was less than a year ago that Beatris had left her school room to take up the veil.

As was the case for many of the convent girls, Beatris had been sent by a family too poor to feed her. She would have come to them around the age of five or six, with the understanding that the convent would provide her with the sort of upbringing appropriate to a daughter in the Maker’s service. Of course some prospects were not realized for all girls, as chastity was a very strict requirement, but Sister Agnes was to be relied upon in such matters and so the Abbess had no cause to doubt her assurance that Beatris was as good a girl as she claimed.

Of course, even very good girls were not immune to the necessity for discipline, and it sounded as though Beatris was no exception. The Abbess had much experience in this area and she was prepared to guide the girl as necessary. The sort of modesty expected of their convent girls sometimes made the necessary discipline a challenge, but the obedience also required of them usually proved a great aid. She hoped this would also be the case for Beatris.

The girl was not long in arriving. She stepped through the door and at once the Abbess noted the promising humility of her countenance. Her veil, the modest snood of unbleached cotton adopted on a girl’s first vows to the Maker’s service, was perfectly positioned, and the plain grey gown was in pristine order. Sometimes the new novitiates retained immodest habits of their girlhood for a year or two, and required chastisement for climbing trees, wading in streams and otherwise dirtying their sacred garments, but in the case of Beatris she had obviously made every effort to comply with the codes of dress and comportment.

This was very promising indeed.

Of course the Abbess was careful not to betray too much of her approval. Beatris had still demonstrated shocking disrespect for her Maker and her veil by squirming in the chapel, and so she would need to be chastened. It would not do to begin by smiling.

“Come in, and close the door,” the Abbess said sternly. Beatris complied at once, then crossed to kneel in the appropriate posture and kiss the hand of her Reverend Mother.

“Very good,” the Abbess said, a little less sternly. “Now you may remain on your knees while we discuss the matter of your blasphemy.”

Poor Beatris jerked her head up at this, giving the Abbess her first full view of the soft, round cheeks and wings of carefully combed strawberry blonde hair, waving down over the girl’s temples before disappearing into the veil. Her eyes were enormous, grey-green and shining with unshed tears.

“My blasphemy—oh!” she cried, genuinely distressed. “Was it so bad?”

“You were inattentive to the daily service. That would have earned you a whipping in the school room; do you think the offense is less serious now you have promised your whole life to your Maker?”

“No, Abbess,” Beatris whispered, mortified.

“Did you fidget in chapel as a schoolgirl?”

“Not so often. It’s worse now.”

“Do you regret promising your obedience to the Maker and taking up the veil?”

“Oh, no!” Beatris cried, and this time one tear did escape and trickle down her cheek. “It is all I’ve wanted since I came here. I love the chapel service.”

“Then why do you think you cannot be still and attend the holy writ? Surely it should fill your heart with joy and settle your soul.”

“It does!” Beatris promised fervently. “Oh, it does. Only . . . not my body.”

Her frankness was so earnest, so utterly without impudence, that the Abbess nearly forgot herself and laughed. She overcame the urge by giving the girl’s cheek a firm little slap.

“None of your sauce, my girl,” she warned. “We must determine if you are fit for the Maker’s service. Why would your body be less obedient to His will than your soul? If you could sit through the service as a girl, why not as a young woman?”

Beatris, her right cheek tear-streaked and her left cheek becomingly rosy from the chastisement, looked earnestly up at the Abbess.

“I think perhaps because when we were at school we could run and play before chapel, but now it is unseemly, so I cannot be as still.”

It was such a logical conclusion, the Reverend Mother wondered that she had not thought of it herself.

“You have been granted great insight by the Maker,” she said almost kindly. “This is a mark of His approval.”

Beatris burst into smiles of joy before the Abbess frowned them away.

“However, there is still the matter of your comportment to address. I will chastise you for this day and the others, and I hope that the punishment will be sufficient to settle you in the future. If it is not, I am not sure what is to be done. We cannot allow you to set a poor example for the girls still in the schoolroom. They must see that all sisters sworn to His service conduct themselves appropriately. Do you understand?”

Beatris nodded tearfully.

“Very good. Now do you know how to present yourself for chastisement?”

Beatris shook her head. Well, that was also to be expected, if she were as compliant as Sister Agnes indicated.

“It is simple enough. You must raise your outer skirt and tuck it into the back of your girdle. Then bend forward over my little table here, and keep absolutely still, on pain of disobedience to your Maker.”

It was apparent from the fresh horror on the girl’s face that disobedience to her Maker was the worst offence she could imagine. This settled the soul of the Abbess in her suspicion that a single chastisement would be sufficient. An earnest young lady like Beatris rarely required more.

The girl, blushing charmingly, arranged her outer garment as directed, leaving only the cotton shift in place as protection against complete immodesty. Then she bent over the table so that the light fabric of her shift betrayed the gentle curve of her backside.

The Abbess placed a light palm on the girl’s lower back, and brought her hand down with a fierce clap. Poor Beatris, unprepared for the assault, let out a small yelp.

“Hush,” the Abbess said sharply. “Resistance is disobedience, my girl.”

Beatris at once pressed her cheek to the table, eyes shining in tearful contrition.

“Forgive me, Reverend Mother,” she pleaded, and so earnest was her petition, the Abbess softened at once.

“Of course,” she said gently. “But while forgiveness is graciously given, punishment is also earned. You have earned this one, you understand? You must accept it humbly, and thank me for it when I am done. This way I can see the repentance demanded by our Maker.”

“I understand, Abbess,” Beatris promised, and the Abbess, satisfied, patted the plump curve of her bottom in approval.

“Very good. Now we will continue.”

The Abbess was a fair woman, and the spanking she gave was no gentler than any she had given any girl caught in worse crimes. All disobedience was shame to their Maker, so Beatris, humbled and half-nude, was dealt with just as strictly as a girl who crept out at night and spread her legs for a boy like a common harlot.

The girl’s poor backside, which virtue had kept unmolested until that day, was slapped nineteen times more, until she was weeping silently into the tabletop, and the Reverend Mother deemed her chastisement complete.

“Now my girl,” she said firmly, though not unkindly, “you must cover yourself and kneel to thank me.”

So Beatris, red-faced and tearful, restored herself to full modesty and knelt to kiss the sacred disc of roughly-hammered metal that hung from the girdle of the Abbess.

“Mother and Maker forgive me my trespass,” she said sweetly. “And help me not stray again.”

“There my dear,” the abbess said gently, “you have done very well. I think we need not fear future transgressions from such a sweet girl. Now let me kiss your face, and you may return to your bed to pray.”

Beatris submitted to the kiss, unresisting, and hurried from the room.

The Abbess, vaguely conscious of some disquieting heat building in her stomach, hastened to return her attention to the household accounts.

 

* * *

 

“Reverend Mother,” the apologetic cough of Sister Agnes broke the silence. The Reverend Mother, who had just neatened her hair after morning chapel and was in the act of adjusting her wimple, looked up in some impatience.

“Yes, Sister Agnes?”

“I am very much afraid . . . even after you dealt with her so wonderfully the day before last . . .”

“What, Beatris? Again?”

Sister Agnes nodded unhappily. “She is most ashamed. She has begged me to petition you on her behalf. She fears the displeasure of the Maker, and trusts you to set her aright.”

“This is most disappointing. Yes, of course you should bring her to me at once.”

The room Beatris was ushered into was not the small office of two days ago, but the narrow, private cell of the Abbess herself. According to her years of service—she had taken up her veil at fourteen, over thirty years ago—she had not only a bed and cupboard and the necessary convenience, but a chair and table as well, at which she sometimes penned her holy reflections. She was seated in this chair when Beatris arrived, and no matter how stern her features were the effect was lost on Beatris, who promptly flung herself at the feet of the Abbess and wept into the hem of her habit.

“I have behaved so wrongly,” she whispered, when the Abbess enjoined her to sit up and stop her nonsense. “I remembered your warning, that it would be blasphemy, but somehow I could not be still. I rocked in my seat, and when I realized what I was doing I begged the Maker to stop me, even if He would strike me down. I did not want to displease Him or you.”

“And yet you persisted in your discontent,” the Abbess frowned. “I had not expected this of you. I was perhaps even too gentle with you last time, though I did not intend it. Sometimes my hand is stayed out of respect for a girl’s natural obedience. This is a failing of mine.”

“Oh please do not stay your hand,” Beatris begged. “I would not suffer the displeasure of the Maker for anything. Please, Reverend Mother, do not suffer my disobedience.”

“I had not thought to,” the Abbess promised. “But I am very pleased to see you so submissive to your punishment, my dear. It speaks to your humility and contrition.”

Beatris lifted her face to smile in hopeful gratitude. The Reverend Mother thought, for not the first time, that it was one of the loveliest faces she had seen. Plump girlhood still lingered in the curve of the cheek, and a charming dusting of freckles covered the snub nose. Even blotchy from her weeping, it was the sort of face that artists sought out for holy paintings; the simple innocence was charming in its entirety.

“My dear,” the Abbess said, cupping the girl’s chin gently, “I think perhaps we had better make as thorough a business of this as possible. I would not for the world endanger your soul. Will you trust me to guide you in this?”

“Oh yes,” Beatris said, and nobody could have doubted she meant it.

“Very well. Then you must once again assume your posture of two days ago, however this time, you must lift your shift as well.”

The girl’s eyes widened.

“But then—”

“I thought,” the Abbess said sternly, “you had just entrusted me to guide you.”

“I did, Reverend Mother.” Beatris wavered, then squared her shoulders in resolve. “I am sorry. Please, forgive me, and bid me as you will.”

The Abbess patted the girl’s chin in almost maternal approval.

“Very good. I would have you tuck the hem of both your gown and shift into your girdle, and bend over my table. You must take care not to move or cry out, do you understand? Think only on your Maker and submission to His will for you. If you are penitent, you will surely find His favour.”

Beatris, anxious to demonstrate her goodwill, rose at once and raised her garments as instructed. She did blush to bare her bottom to the Abbess, but the Abbess, an expert in schooling her features to inscrutability, made no sign of reaction to the girl’s backside, never mind that the plump curve and the exquisite unblemished skin made her mouth water.

Beatris bent over the table, her stomach and bosom supported by the narrow structure, her hips resting on the edge. The Mother Superior once again rested her palm on the small of the girl’s back, and if she pressed a little harder than was usual for her, there was no way to tell because Beatris was firm in her resolve that she would betray no unholy rebellion.

This time, the Abbess did not deliver the quick, perfunctory spanking of two days ago. Instead she struck a blow and waited for the pale flesh to colour rosily in the approximate shape of her palm.

“There,” she scolded, “even your rebellious flesh has wit to blush its shame.”

Beatris, chastened, did not reply. Satisfied that the girl would make no protest, the Abbess struck her again.

The juicy slap and the soft jiggle of flesh stirred a primal satisfaction in the Mother Superior. Surely, she thought, this was confirmation that the Maker’s will was being done. He was pleased with her decision to bend Beatris fully to her will, and His.

She paid particular attention to the sweet, rosy backside at the next blow, watching it colour exquisitely under the slap. She felt an answering tug deep in her belly, and took it, again, as a sign that the Maker desired that Beatris be fully submitted to the Mother Superior, and through her, to Him.

Confident in the rightness of His holy will, the Mother Superior decided that her palm was insufficient implement for such a sacred task. Instead she took up the hairbrush she had used to tidy her hair. No fine noblewoman’s tool, this; vanity would be unbecoming of a sister, so the brush was a long-handled, coarse-bristled device equally suitable to the perfunctory smoothing of hair and the washing of one’s neck.

Without a word to her humbled penitent, the Abbess brought the brush down with a crack.

Poor Beatris! She very nearly lost control of herself and cried out; her body jerked horribly on the table, but it happened in such a way that the Abbess was content to imagine it was the force of the blow that disarranged the girl, instead of her own disobedience.

And Beatris was such a good girl. She truly desired the approval of her Abbess and the Maker. She scrunched up her pretty face and clenched every muscle in her body, determined to withstand the ordeal. However the Abbess saw this, and did not approve.

“My dear,” she said, smoothing her hand over the girl’s bottom, “I know it is painful, but that is as it is meant to be. The intent is to correct you for the Maker’s glory. If you submit to me as you would unto Him, completely yield in all regards, you will feel His pleasure as I do. This means you must not resist.”

So Beatris, obedient even unto her own discomfort, relaxed her body. In doing so she unclenched every muscle, and her legs parted at the apex of her thighs, revealing a soft, pink pair of cuntlips.

The Abbess licked her own lips at the sight. She had not seen so delectable and perfect a little cunt in many years, almost since she herself had been a novitiate. The habits of girls were not nearly so guarded when they did not involve men, and she had experienced a thorough education in her own convent days of a particular sort.

Now, with Beatris so yielding, her sweet little treasure moist and unplundered, the Mother Superior decided it would be well within her authority to test the girl in every respect. After all, it was given to her to keep the girl on the appropriate path; she would be remiss in her duty if she did not test the true extent of her obedience.

“That’s a good girl,” she said, and patted the soft cleft. Beatris did not flinch, exactly, but a gasp of shock escaped her. The Abbess decided this was appropriate, under the circumstances, and administered only a light slap of correction.

She administered it, of course, directly across the girl’s pussy. Beatris flinched charmingly, then got herself under control again.

“There, you see?” said the Abbess. “Already you are learning restraint. This is proof we are on the path the Maker has laid out for you. Remember that, surrender yourself entirely to Him, and you can be assured that all will be well.”

Poor Beatris was trembling with uncertainty at exactly what manner of surrender this could be, but she did not speak. A rush of affection for her warmed the breast of the Abbess. The girl was thoroughly humbled, her most private secrets bared to the older woman’s chamber, and yet still her piety and obedience kept her in perfect submission.

“I can see why the Maker would be pleased to ordain your chastisement,” the Abbess said kindly. “It often falls to the most pious to suffer for His sake. Let us ensure that you honour Him well.”

“If it is the Maker’s will,” Beatris whispered. Her lovely, silvery voice wobbled over a few of the words, weakened by her fear and contrition. The Abbess nodded approvingly.

“Part your legs, dear.”

Beatris did as she was told, inching her feet cautiously apart until the sweet pink cleft yawned shyly open. The Abbess slapped it, drawing a muffled cry from the poor girl, then silent tears.

“You see how it pleases Him to humble you?” she encouraged Beatris, feeling the holy raptures warming her own stomach. “You must be sure to accept all His displeasure, ere you can receive his reward. Be very still now, dear, I must test you.”

She used the hairbrush, bristle-side down, to administer the spanking. No longer did she content herself to mark the buttocks of the weeping maiden; instead her punishment focused very intensely on the soft, virgin entrance of the weeping girl. She beat it firmly with the brush, punishing the pussy without remorse or hesitation, relishing the soft cries as each sting found its mark.

“You must describe to me,” she said at last, “the state of contrition you experience now. Describe all sensations, lest you fail to humble yourself properly.”

“I—I hurt,” Beatris said helplessly.

“Where do you hurt, dear?”

“It . . . in a private . . . between my legs, Abbess.”

“Yes? And? Do you feel anything else?”

“A—a heat?” Beatris hazarded. Her words were choked with tears, but her natural earnest piety drove her to struggle through the impossibility of an innocent describing the carnal. “It feels warm, Abbess. There, on my . . . within.”

“Is it entirely unpleasant?”

“No,” sobbed Beatris. “To my shame it is not. Should not chastisement cause only pain? But mine gives something else. Am I very wicked if I say this of my punishment, Abbess?”

“Not at all, dear,” the Reverend Mother encouraged her. “Indeed it is a sign from the Maker that we must continue. He will fortify you to endure all. Don’t you see? It is His gift. You must receive it with gratitude.”

So Beatris was enjoined to kneel, her scarlet-marked bottom still bare, and offer kisses of supplication and gratitude to the holy girdle of the Abbess. Then she resumed an echo of her former position, but this time the Abbess ordered her to kneel at the side of the bed and bend forward. Beatris obeyed without complaint or question, which obedience further charmed the Reverend Mother, and compelled her to press a holy kiss of her own to the virgin charms of Beatris.

“Oh!” cried the girl.

“There,” warned the Abbess, “I hope that was not a protestation I heard from you, my girl.”

“No Madam,” whispered Beatris, the cheeks of her face as rosy as the cheeks of her backside, “I promise it was not.”

“I will take you at your word,” the Abbess said graciously, but in truth she did not have to. The cleft of the girl’s pussy bore further proof of the Maker’s hand on her. So thoroughly had the holy chastisement humbled her that her dear little cunt flexed and drooled a welcome for whatever punishment awaited, and the Abbess, on taking in this sight, felt moved to take up the brush again.

“Beatris, you must spread your knees a shoulder-width apart, and no matter what the Maker has ordained for you in this trial, you must yield to it. Do you hear?”

The girl looked back in real fear. Her eyes were wide and swam with fresh tears, but such was her devotion that she could not rebel.

“I hear, Madam. May the Maker give me strength to yield to Him in this and all things.”

“That is a fitting request,” the Abbess assured her. “I too ask Him for your complete submission and subservience to His will. I trust that what He has me deliver to you now will not be beyond your ability to bear.”

“Surely He is wise in such things,” Beatris agreed, but she could not hold back her tears, and the Abbess did not scold her for burying her face in the coverlet to weep, even as she parted her knees in exactly the manner ordained.

Her cunt was the loveliest thing the Abbess had seen. Pink, perfect and wet, like an overripe summer peach split and moist in the sun. The dusting of curls was soft to the touch, as was the flesh they framed. The Abbess could not refrain from pressing her own lips to the cleft and sucking the holy nectar of the girl’s submission. Beatris, poor dear, shuddered fearfully at the first touch but relaxed most adorably under the tender preparation for what must follow.

The three subsequent blows from the brush were perfunctory at best. The Abbess had seen, through the inclination of her own will, what must follow. A gentle spanking with a bristle brush, stinging the lips of the pretty little cunt and forcing it to moisten in anticipation, was merely meant as preparation for the full chastisement.

The handle of the bristle brush was not wholly round, but over time had been worn close to. It was nearly two hands’ widths in length, and the Abbess saw in its form a providential perfection, pre-ordained to this purpose.

Once Beatris had been warmed by the spanking, the Abbess reversed the direction of the brush and cupped it by the bristles. The handle she positioned at the mouth of the maiden passage, and paused there a moment, the tip just tenderly parting the soft pink lips, to pray to the Maker that He would guide her in this.

The Maker answered with a sweet, pure heat in the Reverend Mother’s own loins. Yes, this was the correct path, and the Maker would reward her for guiding Beatris to full humility before Him. She could not doubt it was so.

Gently, reverently, the Abbess advanced the handle of the brush.

Beatris was in this, as in all things, perfectly submissive to the Maker’s will. She did cry out briefly; she even squirmed on the bed, miserable with a maiden’s discomfort at first penetration. But her holy devotion bred sweet submission, and so even as the rude invasion continued, and the Abbess forced that fat, smooth handle even farther into the tight recess of the virgin cunt, Beatris wept into the scratchy coverlet and thanked the Maker for trusting her to this thankless task.

“Forgive me,” she begged in fevered prayer, “please forgive me, I— _ohh_!” as the Abbess overcame some slight rebellion from the tight, hot cunt, “ohh, ow, it . . . oh forgive me. I wish to yield to You. Th-thank you for my punishment. Thank you for the Reverend Mother, who g-guides m-me . . .”

She might have meant there to be more to the prayer, but she couldn’t get it out. Her sweet maiden treasure had been fully breached and the Abbess felt her own cunt pulsing in fierce, sweet victory.

“You must kneel,” she gasped. “The Maker wills it.”

But Beatris, thoroughly violated, could not achieve the correct position. Instead she was forced to lie lengthwise on the bed, the handle of the brush poking rudely out of her poor cunt, while the Abbess spread her own legs, placed the holy disc directly above the entrance to her cunt, and forced the bowed head of the novice down between her legs.

Beatris kissed and wept and kissed again. Her supplication was entire. There was no resistance or rebellion in her attitude, not even when the Abbess was led to test her by grabbing the back of her head and grinding her cunt viciously up into the girl’s face til she choked and gagged and fought for breath and the Reverend Mother came, cunt clutching greedily at the pretty little face, until the girl’s soft cheeks were slicked with her Abbess’ spend.

Then, sated with her holy reward, the Reverend Mother felt inspired to grab the handle of the brush and complete the chastisement of Beatris by fucking her, hard and fast, with the hairbrush.

If you have ever heard a maiden fucked thusly, you will know something of the cries Beatris gave. They were almost musical in their beauty: pained, sweet raptures of holy submission to her Maker’s will, as administered via the unrelenting hand of her Reverend Mother. With each thrust another cry went up, and so sweet were her cries that her poor dear cunt was split again and again and again by the merciless driving of the brush. I think you can well imagine the totality of her submission under those conditions. She felt face-forward on the bed to receive it, bottom arched high, her skirt spilling forward to hide her face as the Abbess fucked her into contrition such as she had never known before.

It is the sort of submission which can only be met with a reward. As Beatris lay there, unprotesting, unresisting, giving herself wholly over to the ordained fucking of her cunt, the sweetest thing she had ever felt began to build within her.

It started somewhere deep within her belly, at about the point where the brush knocked hard at the very back of her, as there was nowhere else for it to go. Then from there it spread, hot and heavy and unbearable in its perfection, until it numbed her legs and toes and broke upon her in a blinding wave, clean and holy, driving her flat on her stomach with a choking cry.

The Abbess did not stop her drive for a moment, but she blessed the day and the honour given her, that the Maker had ordained it would be her hand which wielded the brush that fucked Beatris into holy ecstasy.

Again and again Beatris came on the brush, her cunt clutching at the implement of her humility until there was nothing left within her to spend. Only when she lay there, slack and nearly insensate, did the Abbess at last consent to withdraw the tool of chastisement, leaving a pretty, gaping pink hole in its wake.

“The will of the Maker has been done,” she sighed, and bent forward to press a worshipful kiss to this sign of his favour.

Beatris moaned. Her cunt, obedient even in its state of abuse, fluttered sweetly at the holy Mother’s holy kiss.

“Praise the Maker,” is what she should have said, but in her condition of total debauchment and complete penitence, she could only groan.

“Now my dear,” the Abbess said, petting the pretty bottom fondly, “look at you! You’re a terrible mess. All marked up for His glory, of course, but there’s no need to indulge yourself by lying abed this way. You had better put yourself to rights in a hurry. Evening service will soon begin, and it would not do for you to be late.”

Lateness was another sort of blasphemy, and the punishment appropriately severe. The Abbess was anxious that a dear, sweet girl like Beatris not risk the wrath of the Maker in such a way as to find herself in that position again.

At least, not today.


End file.
